Adventures in Politics

This was originally posted in 2015, but seems relevant again at the moment.

“There are copies of candidate statements available. Can you return them at the end of the meeting, to save on copying for other meetings?” said the officiating party representative. There was no need – the pile remained untouched and un-read at the end of the meeting.

It was no surprise that others had ambitions for our ward – that became clear when the recently-victorious candidate failed to thank any of her campaign team but managed to name-check a couple of people from outside the ward at her victory party.

One of the criticisms our opponents threw at us for years was that our candidates weren't local – that they didn't live in the ward and until selection had little or nothing to do with it. For the 2015 campaign, the branch had two strong potential candidates from within the ward. Both with experience in campaigning and local activism, who were (or had been) union reps, school governors, local authority workers; who knew the area, whose children were educated in the local state schools, who had demonstrated commitment to the branch and to the campaigns of previous candidates. The branch was newly-energised, with a core group of dedicated members who regularly attended branch meetings, strong distribution networks for leafleting and a mission to engage with all sections of the local community, in one of the most diverse wards in the city.

“Local Labour party members select their local candidates within the party’s rules and guidelines. Those wishing to become Labour councillors are interviewed by an independent assessment team.”

Selection is a two stage process: shortlisting enables branch members to decide who to invite for interview (based on their candidate statements), and the selection meeting interviews all those shortlisted before voting for a candidate.

The shortlisting meeting had been booked at a local community centre, and all branch members were invited to attend. They were reminded that membership cards would be required on the night, to establish eligibility to vote. The shortlisting meeting is often the first opportunity ordinary members get to assess the capabilities of prospective councillors.

When the regular members arrived, they found that the meeting had been moved to a larger room than the normal one used for branch meetings and the AGM, and a sea of unfamiliar faces were already seated some 20 minutes before the meeting was due to start. There were two party officials present as observers but it was felt, as the Chair and Secretary were both potential candidates, that one of those observers should chair the meeting instead.

The procedure for the meeting was explained, membership cards checked (although some people were 'vouched for', having not brought their membership cards, despite this being clearly requested in advance) and it was agreed that the two potential in-ward candidates present would leave the room once the nomination process was due to start.

At this point, someone from the floor asked that any shortlist be restricted to just two names. The chair explained that the size of any shortlist was something that could determined once all nominations had been received. The two local potential candidates then left the meeting.

A total of 5 nominations were made; the two local candidates and three from outside the ward. At this point the size of the shortlist would normally be determined before discussing the merits of the nominated candidates and voting to determine which should go forward to selection. The proposal for a two person shortlist was voted on and accepted (without, apparently, any discussion of the rationale behind it) and the meeting then proceeded to a secret ballot; no discussion of the candidates' merits, just the vote.

A few minutes later, the meeting broke up. Two out-of-area candidates had been selected for interview; one of them, the person who'd been “thanked” by our new councillor....

Regular, active members, those who had been out knocking on doors and delivering leaflets in all weathers, were visibly upset at the outcome. That with two good local candidates to choose from, they had again been landed with an outsider. The one big campaign issue that could have been neutralised immediately (“You don't live here!”) would now once again be a fight campaigners would have to have before even starting on policy differences.

And this had been done on the basis of the votes of people who had never involved themselves with the branch, had never joined in campaigns, but had simply turned up to vote one one occasion, without any discussion of alternative candidates and seemingly no wish to hear what the other 3 nominees might have to say to them at the selection meeting. Notably, few of them have been seen since.

For a branch without a sitting councillor (which was in itself contentious, as the incumbent was not included on the panel of candidates, effectively de-selected by the party without reference to the branch who originally selected him, and whose appeal to the NEC was still pending on the night of the meeting), it would not have been unreasonable to have interviewed all five nominated candidates. While no rules had actually been broken, the selection was conducted in an unethical (and yet clumsily obvious) way. Active members had been left in no doubt that their hard work and commitment counted for nothing, and they would simply be given a favoured candidate for whom they were expected to campaign.

Nor was this the first year in which this had happened. When selection took place for 2014 candidates, the branch again had two candidates from within the ward (both male), but it was declared an all women shortlist (not that there is anything wrong with those). The branch was also the very last to hold its selection meeting, so the shortlist voted on by the branch diminished as other candidates got selected until on the night, there was only one remaining candidate to be interviewed. When this was questioned from the floor, the response was that if the branch did not make a 'selection', a candidate would be imposed.

The two local candidates in this case (the branch Chair and Secretary, don't forget) were not, and have never been, formally notified of the outcome of the meeting. Not that they had failed to be shortlisted, nor the names of those who had. As branch members, they should have been invited back into the meeting to discuss the final agenda points (timing of speeches, questions to be asked of candidates, etc for the selection meeting next week) but they were not, and were left outside until the meeting broke up. No commiserations from the two councillors present, both of whose election campaigns had been reliant on these people's hard work and enthusiasm. A very shabby way to treat good people. And if they treat their own activists with such contempt, one has to query what they think of the local electorate?

The party 'machine' had been used before the shortlisting to try and preclude one of the in-ward candidates from standing, on the grounds that he had a substantive job within the local authority. It had to be pointed out to them that under the rules a) local authority employees were entitled to stand as long as they resigned at the point of nomination (this has also, on occasion, been extended to resigning if elected) and that b) the person in question had disclosed his employment status at the initial panel interview without it being questioned. The machine then cranked up a gear, with a story being circulated that the other in-ward candidate had stood down from the process prior to shortlisting, an (incorrect) fact that was happily passed around the party.

After the selection, relations between the elected councillors and the branch executive worsened considerably. Laughable appeals for 'unity' which appeared to mean the branch supporting councillors' actions without question, failure to respond to reasonable requests for information, while accusing branch officers of inaction (when the officer in question was on holiday) regarding councillor actions/activities, discussing a significant issue about a branch officer privately with another officer on a matter which affected the branch more widely, seemingly appointing a campaign manager without reference to the Executive Committee and arranging a campaign meeting at 24 hours' notice during August, when most of the EC were unable to attend. There was also a (hastily withdrawn) threat from the CLP to suspend the branch for questioning councillors' actions, with the accusation that the branch was “trying to impose its will” on the councillors. A formal complaint to the party about the conduct of one of those involved has not given any response some sixteen months after it was made.

The smears continued. The first branch meeting of the autumn was held at a new venue, but some people turning up at the old one were told that it had been cancelled as 'trouble' was expected. Only mischief-making possibly, but deeply unprofessional. The next leaflet omitted the sitting-but-deselected councillor (whose term of office did not run out until May 2015) from the 'team' contact list, effectively air-brushing him from the branch.

In the next few months, both the branch chair and secretary resigned; a branch fundraiser attracted only about 15 people; activists stopped going out on the doorstep. By the time of the AGM, it was felt necessary to put forward a motion declaring that the branch had “complete confidence in its councillors and candidate” which, in itself suggested there might be a problem.

This is not an isolated case. There are reports of similar things happening all over the country. The Labour Party has many fine, committed activists, but increasingly, they were not being given the chance to serve their communities. It is a profoundly worrying trend and will ultimately do harm to a party already accused of ignoring its core vote and parachuting candidates into seats with which they have no connection.

In the last 24 hours, there have been news stories about muslim women being prevented from standing as candidates. Sadly, this is all too credible, despite the party's reassurances as to the robustness of the selection system. This system can be, and is, played to the advantage of the party machine. And it's not just muslim women, but all women (and some men) whose faces don't fit, for whatever reason.

Of course, there's a right of appeal. But when no actual rules are broken (just twisted to within an inch of snapping), what would be the point? As many of us have discovered, complaints disappear into a black hole. And, as we're always being told, party unity is important, so why would 'ordinary' members want to cause embarrassment?

Suggesting that other political parties don't have ways of influencing candidate selection would be naive. Other parties may  be "worse". But I expect better of the Labour Party. Members have had enough of 'keeping quiet' for the good of the party. This is wrong, and we shouldn't have been putting up with it. 

Access

 My son is an ambulatory wheelchair user. He's about to start university, and today we travelled into central Manchester for his Disabled Students Allowance (DSA) assessment, to determine what equipment and support he needs to succeed while he's there. It was a refreshing change, after years of dealing with the DWP on behalf of two disabled children/young adults, to encounter an assessor who understood their brief and whose objective was to find the right tools and recommend them. All in all, quite a postive day.

Getting to the assessment centre, though, was another matter. I didn't want to drive into central Manchester (there are too many stealth bus lanes and closed-to-ordinary-traffic roads these days aimed at trapping the unwary occasional traveller to our fair city in its penalty traffic camera system) but we have an integrated public transport system and it's only three miles, so this shouldn't have been a problem.

We couldn't go by train because Levenshulme still has no disabled access (I've lived here nearly 40 years and it's been promised for pretty much all that time). If you look closely at this lovely print by my friend Paul Magrs, you'll see the problem. No matter that disabled people and parents with prams can't actually get from the street to the ticket office or platforms - as our councillor told us, we have a lovely new mural to enjoy to raise morale!

My son's not keen on buses which, while fairly plentiful, can be tricky to get on and off, even where the suspension can be dropped to street level (he could do a whole separate blog post about the trials of getting around by bus) and the audible disgruntlement of some of the travelling public make it a less than pleasurable experience.

His favoured mode of transport is the Metrolink system, which has good accessibility and which has a stop about 2-3 minutes walk/wheel from the assessment centre, so Plan A was drive the 3.5 miles to East Didsbury metrolink, park and get the tram into town. 

We got to East Didsbury to find NO parking spaces (Note to Offspring: apply for that Blue Badge before you go to uni) so we had to devise a Plan B, which was to drive all the way back past home and another 3 miles into the city centre to park near that light-sapping place that replaced the old BBC studios on Oxford Road (Circle Square). This was about a ten minute walk/wheel from the assessment centre, with a light uphill incline, but nothing like the hills in Leeds where he will be studying. 

Gentle reader, if you are not disabled you may never have noticed the appalling quality of dropped kerbs in the centre of this "world class city" - they either aren't dropped enough, or too much (so that puddles form in them) or the surrounding tarmac is so poorly maintained that any advantage to dropping a kerb is lost. My son is fit enough to do a mini-wheelie to get himself over the initial bump of a not-quite-dropped-enough kerb, but many wheelchair users could not. We can understand (if not be happy about) the paltry 10 functional dropped kerbs of the 38 he had to navigate other week while taking part in Levenshulme Pride - after all, it's "only the suburbs" and there's no money - but the Manchester is allegedly one of the country's major urban centres, one of the flattest cities in the country and we love it to bits, but really - this is the state of just one the kerbs that has been made 'accessible' (all of that cracked tactile paving was loose and unstable).

So why are they so bad? Does the council just chuck the contract at the cheapest bidder? Do they not do any inspections of the work to see if it's actually fit for pupose? Maybe it's just that until and unless you experience them as a wheelchair user, they probably look lovely.

We're both taking part in the Manchester Pride march this weekend, so will keep you posted on how we get on!

And so, Another Eulogy

Having already written, delivered and published eulogies for my parents and my partner, I thought it only right to add that of my late mother in law, who died last month. Whatever pretensions I may ever have had as a writer (ie, none) this would not have been my chosen specialist area.

Pamela Joan New 1934 - 2023 

This is the eulogy I never expected to have to give. Ordinarily, it would have fallen to Paul, the son Pam loved so much, but sadly he’s no longer with us, so I am hoping that I can do both of them justice today. Please forgive me if I have forgotten or missed anything about Pam, whom I was fortunate enough to know for 35 years.

Pam was born on 30 December 1934 in Wincanton, the only child of Frank and Gladys. The family lived on Mill Street in the town, although they stayed in touch with their extended families in Nailsea, Yatton and Clevedon. They were frequent visitors to Nailsea, where Frank’s family had lived for generations, and she was especially fond of her aunt Hilda, who ran West End Stores. She also had many cousins on the Payne side of the family, some of whom are with us today.

In 1956, Pam married local lad Ronald New and the couple moved to Bristol, where Ron worked for the GPO (later to become British Telecom). In 1965, they adopted a son, Paul, and the family made their home in Headley Park, in a home with one of the finest views of the city.

When Paul was very young Pam worked part time, temping, but in later years she joined Royal Mail Customer Services, from where she retired with 20 years’ service. After her retirement she kept active, volunteering with the WRVS at Bristol Royal Infirmary for several years.

I first met Pam in 1988 – Paul and I had met at Manchester University, and he took me by train to meet his mother and to show me his home city. At Stafford station he spotted a fruit machine in need of emptying and hopped off the train, leaving me potentially heading for a city I’d never been to and trying to locate a woman I had never met!

Thankfully, he made the train connection and I met Pam, thus starting a relationship which lasted until her recent death. Pam’s mother Gladys was by this time in a care home in Clevedon, having been diagnosed with the same dementia which Pam subsequently developed. Pam made weekly visits from Bristol to Clevedon to visit her, initially on her moped and later in her little Fiesta – it was only after she moved to Nailsea that I realised quite what the journey ‘up over Failand’ entailed on a moped! Paul and I visited as often as we could for the ten years Gladys lived at the Belmont care home in Clevedon and as a result, I was fortunate to meet most of the extended Payne family at family parties prior to Gladys’ death in 1996.

When she and Ron divorced in 1981, Pam had started to indulge her passion for foreign travel – firstly with Paul and later with Brian Evans, the man who was to be her partner and constant companion for 30 years. Together they visited all parts of the globe and had many tales to tell of cruises and excursions.

Her retirement allowed her to continue this, and to make frequent visits to Manchester to see her grandchildren Megan and Josh grow up. She also had the benefit of additional ‘grandchildren’ in Aneurin and Huw, Brian’s grandsons, who were just across the Pennines in Leeds. Meg and Josh were extremely fond of ‘Uncle Brian’ and we were all deeply saddened when he was diagnosed with cancer. Pam spent much of the time that he was ill caring for him in his home at Whitchurch (they always maintained separate homes) and after his death, she returned to Headley Park only to find that it no longer felt like ‘home’ and so began a new chapter in her life.

At the age of 77, she upped sticks and moved back to Nailsea, where most of her family hailed from. The Bakers had been resident in the West End of Nailsea for generations and she and I were able to piece together much of the family history, thanks to Aunty Hilda’s role as custodian of family documents and photos. It is Pam’s wish to have her ashes interred in the family plot at Holy Trinity church where her grandmother Annie, grandfather Charley and Hilda all rest. 

The move was the best move she could have made at that time. She was very happy in her bungalow on Ashton Crescent, and she was also close to several of her cousins. She attended Holy Trinity and became active in social events there. Her cousin Brenda and her husband Dave were always at hand when Pam needed help and we are so grateful for their love and support when we were so far away.

In 2018, her memory started to fail and she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Unable to continue to live independently, she moved into residential care at Silver Trees Care Home in Nailsea, where she continued to have fun, make friends and have a very good quality of life for several more years. Meg, Josh and I are extremely grateful to all the staff there who made her time with them so rewarding, and for the kindness and support they have shown us as a family over the last year when we were dealing with Paul’s illness and our grief after his death.

She remained unaware of the tragically early death of her beloved son almost a year ago. I consulted family members and we all agreed that it was kinder not to tell her, as it would have been terribly upsetting for her to no good purpose. Her memories of him, while they remained, will have been of a devoted and loving son, who cared for her in her failing health as she had done for her mother. The children and I have done our best over the last eleven months to continue this legacy on his behalf, and I hope we have done him proud.

Pam’s was a life well lived. From rural Somerset to the Taj Mahal and the Great Wall of China, she was always delighted by the world around her and by those she loved. She was delighted to learn that Megan did indeed “have a boyfriend” (a frequently occurring question) and in the short time he knew her Logan has been a great support to us on trips out and looking after Pam with us.

And while I will now have my birthday back (we were both born on 30 December) it will be especially poignant from now on, as Pam will no longer be there to share it.

 

 

Fathers Day: an Abundance of Care

As this is their first Fathers Day without their dad, here is what my kids felt about him.

Read by Megan at his funeral in December 2022.

Despite his lifelong assertion that “Your mother wanted kids, I wanted cats. I lost.”, Paul was a devoted and incredible father right up until the very end. He was the best dad in the world, though not in the sort of way you reward with a cheesy Poundland mug (though I may have tried a few times!). Those that knew him will know he’s not much of a touchy-feely person, generally leaning away from hugs and avoiding expressing any genuine emotions in a way that people could hear. He always proved his love in other ways -- secretly spending all day on a train to and from Bristol to collect Josh’s beloved cuddly toy that had been left behind after visiting grandma, or letting me punch him because his exaggerated groans of agony would make me laugh until my bad mood went away. He chose not to treat his children like inferiors, always inviting them into the grown-up conversations and giving them the opportunity to try and understand, even if they ended up not doing. He was a man of carefully measured words and carefully considered actions, characteristics that made him perfectly suited to fatherhood even when he (continually, and only half-sarcastically) claimed to have no clue. No declaration of love could ever mean more than a great lover of cinema taking his children to see Happy Feet and, even worse, Mrs Brown's Boys: D'Movie. He was good at using his own experience of (undiagnosed, but agreed by pretty much everyone except him) autism to advocate and encourage Megan and Josh whenever others weren’t sure how to. He indulged plenty of ridiculous things, like a phobia of doors and a desire to take every bus route in Greater Manchester, but he did more than that as well. He was the best at problem-solving and seemed to always know how to work through situations where emotions weren’t the solution. He often claimed that he was getting carers’ allowance without ever doing any caring, but it wasn’t true -- both of his children would agree that much of their continued survival stems from his abundance of care. For all his wonderful acts as a dad, the best thing he ever did was relinquishing his dream of naming a child Colostomy. Paul lives on through a shared phobia of moths, a dark sense of humour, a perpetual willingness to pop to the shops, and all the love and strength he left behind. These words aren’t something he’d necessarily agree with, and he might visibly cringe if he heard them said aloud, but they’re the truth. He was a better father than he ever gave himself credit for.

2022: Review of the Year

“And worse I may be yet: the worst is not
So long as we can say 'This is the worst.”

Shakespeare, King Lear

 I didn't blog at all in 2022. See below for the reasons:

Preface: December 2021

On a pre-Christmas trip to visit my mother in law, the clutch went on our car. It had to be towed back to Manchester from the West Country and no-one could fix it until the new year. When we hired a vehicle for 24 hours to do the last-minute Christmas Eve Stuff that couldn't be done by public transport, the vehicle hire firm accused me of putting a scratch on it (I still dispute this) resulting in a lost deposit.

January: Car Troubles

It took most of the month to find someone who could do the work, either because of being busy or unable to do the more-complex-than-just-a-replacement-clutch job. 4-figure bill in the end.

February: Illness

My partner started to suffer from  reflux-y symptoms. Eventually persuaded him to consult the GP who suspected a hiatus hernia and did tests to rule out "anything more sinister." Referred to hospital for further investigations.

March, April, May: Backlogs

Covid restrictions and associated backlogs meant nothing else happened while meals became more and more difficult until he was on a soup-only diet (although chocolate always stayed down)

June: Hospital

Attended Manchester Royal Infirmary for an endoscopy but couldn't view the stomach due to the discovery of a large tumour in the oesophagus preventing anything non-liquid getting in there (which explained the soup and chocolate). Referred for more scans/tests at MRI, Trafford General and Salford Royal. 
SatNav getting a lot of use

July: Plague

Outcome of scans = yep, definitely cancer. Two options:

• Nasty, long operation, requiring up to a year recovery.
• Chemo

The week he was due to go in to have feeding tub fitted prior to the op, all four of us finally succumbed to Covid (my fault - I went out for one evening) during the deadliest heatwave in living memory.

Finally admitted to Salford Royal for feeding tube fitting, during which they discover the stomach (which is needed to create a new oesophagus) also has some 'suspicious cells' meaning the op is now not viable. Stent fitted instead, which means at least he can eat real food again, albeit overcooked and chopped up small.

August: Chemo

First round results in a fair amount of persistent hiccupping and throat restriction, making life very unpleasant and his lovely voice changing (luckily temporary)

September: Car Troubles II: the Legend Continues

Second round leaves him feeling slightly chirpier, with signs it's having some effect.

Then some arsehole of a joyrider takes a corner too fast and totals the car. Lucky it was parked and there were no pedestrians about for him to kill. So sorting out insurance and police report at the same time as attending hospital appointments, which I could have done without.

October: More chemo, more pain

Find another car but by this time he's too weak to walk around the hospital on his own due to backache and persistent cough that's developed so become very familiar with the Uber drivers who do the hospital circuit (some are very good and drive in a way that minimises bumps and swerves for a clearly in-pain customer; others, less so). 

November: All hell breaks loose

Backache/cough prove to be symptoms of the cancer having metastasised at an alarming rate.

10th - visit the Christie for bloods/pre-chemo consultation. Told too ill for chemo and sent home with Oramorph and steroids to try and get fit enough for treatment.

11th - reacts badly to Oramorph, starts seeing things and becoming confused. Macmillan nurse calls emergency ambulance as blood sats drop to mid 60s. Admitted to MRI and taken more or less straight to Resus and put on saline drip, Now not recognising me, being aggressive to staff (proof that something is badly wrong) and hallucinating. Put on saline and wait for a bed on the ward. 

12th (his birthday) moved to the ward; had a comfortable night and I'm told to visit him at 2pm. At 10.30am, get a call to say he's taken a turn for the worse and can the family come in? We arrive about 11am at which point they're still in active treatment phase. No sign he knows we're there or has seen the (very fine) card son has made for him. By 2pm, nothing working, so put on end of life care. Daughter asks to leave at the end of the day and goes home with fiancé (who spent 8 hours sitting in the corridor waiting for her because it was family only and he didn't feel he counted). 

13th Son and I spend all day with him. We are top of the waiting list for a side room anywhere in the hospital (one never becomes available). Pain medication seems to be barely touching him and seems very distracted (am told this is just the body reacting in spasms and he's not as uncomfortable as it looks. At 11pm we're asked to step out for a bit so they can "make him comfortable". We both know what that means and when we return he is, at least, less disordered and seemingly calmer. We wait.

14th - at around ten past midnight he leaves us. Have a verbal altercation with a patient on the ward who has been awful to everyone for the whole time we've been there and chooses that moment to complain about all the noise (my son in tears at the loss of his beloved dad). Tell him in no uncertain terms how unpleasant and obstreperous he has been to the staff and how selfish he is being. Grief certainly focuses the mind!

Go home to sleep, after which lovely neighbour helps me do all the immediate stuff which needs doing. Rest of the month telling people he's died, transferring all the utilities to my name so we actually have heat, light, cooking, etc and arranging a funeral. In Manchester. In December.

December: Grief, Funerals and Christmas

The three of us put together a funeral service which we hope reflects the man he was, led by my oldest friend as the celebrant. Despite his assertion that no-one liked him, many friends and former colleagues come to the service and share wonderful stories about him.

Emotions still a bit wobbly, as everywhere we go reminds us of him. 

Christmas a bit weird but not as bad as we'd feared it might be, Developed some new traditions along with the old.

Marked my 60th birthday as a widow - not something I would have predicted.

I have always hated New Year's Eve and this was especially to be avoided. I think I've succeeded in not wishing anyone a happy new year this time - I wasn't feeling it and had a weird feeling I might bring down a year like the one I've just gone through if I'd wished anyone a happy new year!

So, gentle reader, that is why I didn't post anything in 2022.

So it Goes

Paul New 1965-2022

At his happiest with solitude and something to read

My late partner Paul was a fan of Kurt Vonnegut's phrase from Slaughterhouse 5, so it seems appropriate to use it as the title of this post dedicated to him. As many friends couldn't get to his funeral, I thought I would share some of the awfulness that was 2022, and by contrast the positivity and love his funeral and wake engendered.

He died on 14 November 2022, two days after his 57th birthday. What had started out as "a bit of digestive trouble" early in the new year, turned out to be oesophageal cancer, which was not treatable with surgery. In August, he started palliative chemotherapy in the hope of giving him another 12-18 months, but in October he developed back pain which ultimately turned out to be the cancer spreading to his spine And liver. And lungs. On 10 November, he went to the Christie for his bloods and consultation prior to chemo on the Monday and was told he was not fit enough for the treatment. Oramorph and steroids were prescribed, with a view to building his strength back. The next day, he was rushed into Resus at the MRI after his blood sats had dropped to the mid-60s and he'd started hallucinating. On the morning of the 12th he was comfortable on a ward, but by late morning, the kids and I were asked to go in.

Despite the best efforts of the medical staff (and believe me, they tried SO hard) he was too weak to fight of the various infections, and was moved on to end of life care. Thanks to the neglect of 12 years of a government eager to sell the NHS off to private healthcare and refusing to accept that the pandemic was in fact not over, there was no side room anywhere on the enormous MRI site, so he spent his final hours on an open ward, with only a curtain for privacy. I will never forgive the politicians (of any party) who have allowed this to happen.

Because his final days were so rapid and traumatic, we hadn't had the time to discuss his funeral wishes with him (one of the few advantages a dying man with cancer has over those who go suddenly and unexpectedly). The only thing we knew for certain was that he wanted to be buried rather than cremated (although we never really discussed why) and so we planned for a burial in Manchester, in December, in what turned out to be the most prolonged cold spell for years.

In the days after his death, my son Josh and I started putting together a Spotify playlist of a whole load of songs that he loved, that reminded us of him, or which spoke to something which meant a lot to him (protest songs, mainly; the angrier the better). This was as much therapy for us as anything else but from this the first framework of a funeral service started to come into view. 

He was not a religious man so we didn't have to include any hymns, and therefore had free reign to use whatever we wanted. We were keen to avoid clichés, so although he loved Ralph Vaughan Williams, we didn't include any classical music - do we really need to hear that damned lark ascending yet again, beautiful as it is?

Instead, we went for Hallelujah ("No, not that one!") as the song to which he entered the chapel. As we followed him in, I noticed friends and colleagues from all areas of Paul's life in addition to immediate family, as well as a small tribe of Josh's friends who had travelled from all over the country to come and support him. I also knew that there were many others who had wanted to attend but were unable to make it due to other commitments and a rail strike (and he absolutely would not have wanted anyone to cross a picket line on his account).

We were fortunate that my oldest friend, an experienced celebrant, agreed to conduct the service, which meant that she actually knew the deceased in life. There's nothing worse than someone describing your loved one where it's clear they have no clue about who they were or anything much about their life.

The tributes started with Josh reading a poem which he had been reading the day we broke the news to the children about Paul's diagnosis.

Two Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this 

freak of nature, they will wrap his body 

in newspaper and carry him to the museum. 

 

But tonight he is alive and in the north 

field with his mother. It is a perfect 

summer evening: the moon rising over 

the orchard, the wind in the grass. And 

as he stares into the sky, there are 

twice as many stars as usual. 

This is a print Josh made from an original artwork by his friend Salem (@voidheaded on Instagram), whose other work  can be found here: https://www.redbubble.com/people/cyberrhaunt/s

This was followed by Prettiest Eyes by the Beautiful South, a song which sums up the love and friendship of a long-term relationship, and a personal favourite of mine.

We then heard further tributes from family and friends. First Megan, who read (brilliantly) a piece written for her about Paul's qualities as a dad. It was funny, full of affection and written with the "abundance of care" that the (anonymous) author ascribed to Paul himself:

Despite his lifelong assertion that “Your mother wanted kids, I wanted cats. I lost.”, Paul was a devoted and incredible father right up until the very end. He was the best dad in the world, though not in the sort of way you reward with a cheesy Poundland mug (though I may have tried a few times!). Those that knew him will know he’s not much of a touchy-feely person, generally leaning away from hugs and avoiding expressing any genuine emotions in a way that people could hear. He always proved his love in other ways -- secretly spending all day on a train to and from Bristol to collect Josh’s beloved cuddly toy that had been left behind after visiting grandma, or letting me punch him because his exaggerated groans of agony would make me laugh until my bad mood went away. He chose not to treat his children like inferiors, always inviting them into the grown-up conversations and giving them the opportunity to try and understand, even if they ended up not doing. He was a man of carefully measured words and carefully considered actions, characteristics that made him perfectly suited to fatherhood even when he (continually, and only half-sarcastically) claimed to have no clue. No declaration of love could ever mean more than a great lover of cinema taking his children to see Happy Feet and, even worse, Mrs Brown's Boys: D'Movie. He was good at using his own experience of (undiagnosed, but agreed by pretty much everyone except him) autism to advocate and encourage Megan and Josh whenever others weren’t sure how to. He indulged plenty of ridiculous things, like a phobia of doors and a desire to take every bus route in Greater Manchester, but he did more than that as well. He was the best at problem-solving and seemed to always know how to work through situations where emotions weren’t the solution. He often claimed that he was getting carers’ allowance without ever doing any caring, but it wasn’t true -- both of his children would agree that much of their continued survival stems from his abundance of care. For all his wonderful acts as a dad, the best thing he ever did was relinquishing his dream of naming a child Colostomy. Paul lives on through a shared phobia of moths, a dark sense of humour, a perpetual willingness to pop to the shops, and all the love and strength he left behind. These words aren’t something he’d necessarily agree with, and he might visibly cringe if he heard them said aloud, but they’re the truth. He was a better father than he ever gave himself credit for.

This was followed by Paul's oldest friend, who met him when they both joined Bristol Cathedral School as scholarship boys at the age of 11. A fascinating glimpse of the boy who would become the man we all knew; it was clear that the intelligence and wit was always there right from the start.

I found this with his mum's photos.
Paul is the one in the middle at the back with the glasses and his tie crooked

Next came one of our university friends, and godmother to Josh, who regaled us with tales of journalistic rigour and criticism on his part when putting together the annual Film Society booklet, full of works of varying quality but where Paul's always stood out as knowledgeable and often wickedly funny. Here we all are at my parents' house just after we'd won the BFFS' Film Society of the Year. One of the most joyously drunken nights of my life.

We are still in touch with all but two of these people 30 years later

Finally we heard from a former colleague from his twenty-plus years' service with Manchester City Council (a career which ended prematurely due to one of the frequent Osborne-induced round of "savings" heaped on local authorities during the Coalition era). He was never happier than when on his own in a room with a spreadsheet, collating the data that would inform the city's homelessness strategies, but despite all his efforts to evade recognition or promotion he was widely admired and loved by those whose paths he crossed.

Manchester Housing, Southcombe Walk, Moss Side, early 90s 

At this point, it was time for a reading. We agonised over this - having had no chance to discuss what he might like, and wary of him haunting us should we make a bad choice, we were temporarily stumped. Then we remembered how he adored the tales of Noggin the Nog from his childhood; but how to achieve the unique delivery of Oliver Postgate, which made them so special? (He always maintained that he channelled Postgate's narration style when reading aloud to the kids when they were little. It works for everything except Dickens, apparently).

It was here that one of Josh's friends stepped in - he's currently studying Film and TV at university, and he roped in several friends and a lecturer to isolate the audio track from a YouTube video to produce an MP4 which could be played on the chapel audio system.

Noggin the Nog

Which brings us to the eulogy. I make no claim to be a writer - at best, I'm a hack: I can throw something together at short notice with the basic facts but little creative flair (see any of my Film Society reviews as evidence of this - I was always the one who could put together a vaguely competent review of a film no-one had seen and which no-one was quite sure why it was on the programme). On this one occasion, though, I wanted to do him proud, despite the fact that his first reaction when I started this blog in 2010 was to say "Oh, please don't start blogging!" There is a lot of life to sum up (albeit a lot less than there should have been) and I hoped to capture the essence of the man I adored for over 30 years. So here goes:

Paul was born in Bristol in November 1965, and was adopted at birth by Ron, a GPO Engineer, and his wife Pam who had moved to the city from Somerset after their marriage. He grew up in Headley Park in the south of the city and at 11 was awarded a scholarship to Bristol Cathedral School, where he excelled academically. In 1985, he went to Manchester University to study English and American Literature. He had wanted to study Film, but found that the only courses on offer were on campus universities remote from any actual cinemas, which, as he said, meant he could learn the history of cinema but not catch anything on general release. He made up for this by joining Manchester University Film Society where, a couple of years later, I went along to a Freshers Week Cheese and Wine, a decision which as it turned out was momentous.

For a few months we were simply friends (at one point unsuccessfully trying to match-make for each other with other FilmSoc members) until the night of the legendary All-Night Film Show when, at 3am, he shambled along the corridor and leant against the projection box door - taken off its hinges for access reasons - took his John Lennon specs off and rubbed his eyes. It was at this moment I thought “What lovely eyes he has!” and that was it – for the next 34 years, we were virtually inseparable, apart from the 10 months I spent in Pennsylvania, to where he made an international phone call to propose to me in 1989. Sadly, we never did get around to the wedding (it was being planned over the last few months but time ran out on us) but that notwithstanding we had the most glorious life together. 

FilmSoc has been central to our lives – initially, the summer FilmSoc annexe at our old house on Slade Lane, where many a review was written (usually at the last minute), films booked, programmes planned; and latterly the source of so many close friends, several of whom are godparents to Meg and Josh. Paul was delighted that this love of film passed down to the next generation, although he and Josh’s reciprocal film education will now remain unfinished.  

Music was also central to both our lives. Paul loved music but was legendarily tone-deaf and never understood music theory. We watched documentary after documentary from the best explainers – Howard Goodall, Neil Brand and others – and he still understood not one word of it. Our tastes were diverse but grew together over the years, although I’ve never got the Jesus and Mary Chain and he never got Genesis! The children and I have found comfort over the past weeks in putting together a playlist of his favourites, songs that mean something to us or which make a social or political point. 

On leaving university, Paul joined Manchester City Council’s Homeless Families Temporary Accommodation team. For several years, many of his colleagues were also our social circle, with loads of pub quizzes and the fabled trip to York races in 1996. I drove the team there in a minibus and then headed over to visit Philippa, our celebrant today, and her family who lived nearby. It was only on our return to Manchester that we had discovered our adopted city had been blown up.  

Over the years, I came to know Paul’s home town of Bristol well. He always loved it, although he was torn between “These are my people!” and “Why does everything shut at half past five?” We visited Pam regularly as well as his grandmother in Clevedon, and Ron, who had remarried after his and Pam’s divorce. It was on one of these trips out to the pub with his dad in 1997 that we told him we were expecting Megan. As we said goodbye, Ron pressed petrol money on Paul, who protested that he was in his early 30s and working. “You’ll need it,” Ron said, “Now you have the babby on the way.” Sadly, Ron did not live to see his new granddaughter. 

The role of surrogate grandfather fell to Pam’s partner of 30 years, Brian. Uncle Brian was a much-loved part of the children's lives, although I’m not sure his explanation of prime numbers ever stuck with Josh.  

Paul, Pam and Brian

A naturally quiet man and an only child, Paul often seemed perplexed by the sheer loudness of my family, but it was always him who would fall back to accompany my mother while the rest of us strode off at speed, and who regularly corralled the children at family events. He was a good son in law to Fred and Frank and brother-in-law to Sally; he was also famously ‘Aunty Paul’ to his niece Emily for several years. 

A rare one of all of us. Taken on mum and dad's last trip out for a drink in 2016, nicknamed Operation Otter

As you’ve already heard, Paul was the most wonderful father despite his assertion that he was deeply unsuited to the role. From day one, he and Meg had an invisible bond – it was always Paul who could calm her when no-one else could and he continued to be her guide and her champion, delighting in her (belated) educational achievements which were often despite rather than because of the educational system. 

In Josh he had a kindred spirit – a love of film, a love of words, the same ferocious intelligence. They were quite the double act and it was a joy to watch them discussing Doctor Who, cinema or politics together.  
 
It is touching to see so many of his friends and colleagues here today along with the family. I have received so many wonderful tributes from all over the world from people who held him in very high regard. I have never met anyone who, once they got to know him, didn’t love him. As someone said to me, he was “the brightest man in any room he was in” and although he wore that intelligence lightly and was quick to highlight his failings (the lack of DIY skills, the ability to sing) he was an immensely talented and yet self-effacing man. He was also a devoted son, who continued to care for his mother as her health has declined. His curmudgeonly exterior concealed a man of great love and empathy for his fellow human beings, a committed socialist and campaigner for the underdog (hence his lifelong support of Bristol Rovers).

His one big failing was his laissez-faire attitude to timekeeping – the Douglas Adams quotation “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” could have been coined for him - I still remember him running down the stairs of the student union and across to the Arts Building to deliver his dissertation with seconds to spare, and nearly losing him on my first train journey to Bristol when he spotted a full fruit machine in the station café, ripe for emptying, just as the train was about to pull out. To the detriment of all of us, on this one occasion he was tragically early for something, and I so wish he’d been much, much later in his leaving of us. 

A quietly effective and unassuming man, he will be missed more than he will ever know or would have acknowledged. 
 
In the words of our friend and former house-mate Peter (who is currently en route between Japan and Vietnam) “Rest in Peace Paul New, you irreplaceable, cantankerous old star.” 

This was followed by Sondheim's Being Alive, sung by Adrian Lester, a favourite of both of ours. We saw many UK premieres of Sondheim shows together, thanks to the Library Theatre in Manchester, which spent much of the early 90s specialising in them.

And so to the final music choice. Again we considered something classical but then I remembered watching the TV coverage of Glastonbury in the summer (how long ago that seems now) and him saying "THAT'S what I want played at my funeral" so how could we ignore his wish?

Exit Music

So that's it, really. It was a beautiful service and the kids and I were touched that so many people made the effort to attend and stand in the compacted snow to say a final goodbye to my soulmate (such an over-used term, but what else comes close?). There are so many other things I could have mentioned, so here are some:

The massive international phone bills we built up calling each other while I was in the USA for a year (temping for BT on my return, I discovered they'd put an alert on our account due to the suspiciously high usage!)

As members of the Colin Weston Fan Club quiz team, the many pub quizzes which were part of our pre-child lives (over the course of one summer, a rival team kept re-naming itself in the wake of yet another of our victories - they finally settled on We Hate Fucking Students

On the night we won Film Society of the Year, the sight of Paul and our friend Ian jumping round my mum's kitchen, hugging each other and shouting "We won! We won! (alcohol may have been a factor).

Picking up an early morning taxi in Stockport on our way back from an overnight journey from London in 1997 and therefore being some of the very first people in the country to hear of the death of the Princess of Wales. That was weird.

Him spending the whole of my 3-day labour with me - he looked more wrecked at the end of it than I did. He'd (nearly) eaten an out of date pasty from the hospital café, been there to remind the medical staff that in putting my legs in stirrups they'd forgotten to lower the head of the bed, so I was sitting in an ungainly V-shape, and witnessed Meg's arrival by emergency C-section. The man who wanted cats instead was immediately smitten. As afternoon visiting ended, he finally went home to sleep (he had to borrow my jumper, as it had been an uncharacteristically warm February and he'd arrived 3 days earlier in only a T-shirt and jeans) and I said to my midwife "He won't be back until tomorrow now." "He'll be back" she said. And he was, as soon as evening visiting started.

Trying to research, in the pre-internet age, the likely prognosis for our beautiful new daughter, diagnosed at birth with a rare neurological condition (it was pretty grim - happily, real life has proved more positive)

The two of us despatched to the pub by my parents for some brief respite (in Beer, where else?) after an awful day when Meg had had a massive seizure while staying with granny and grandpa; sitting there listening to the tide coming in, wondering whether this would be a feature of the rest of her life (to date, thankfully, it's not).

While I'm angry that this wonderful human being has been taken from us when so many utter bastards live to a ripe old age, I'm also grateful that I had those 34 years with him

At least he lived long enough to see Paul Heaton win the Novello Award that he had so long deserved...

"You can't have too many good times, children

You can't have too many lines..."